


Straw

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Coma, Dark, Deathfic, Horror, Madness, R/NC-17 - Red Cortina, Time Period: 1973-1981 (Life on Mars), Time Period: 1981-2006 (Life on Mars), Time Period: 2006-present (Life on Mars), Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-07
Updated: 2008-04-07
Packaged: 2019-01-20 20:05:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12440631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: Such a light thing, straw.  Still, it only took one more to break the proverbial camel's back.





	Straw

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).

  
Author's notes: Extra-special thanks to the fantabulously awesome Loz, whose brilliant beta-ing made this all possible and who helped polish this fic so it shines like a pair of Phyllis' prized handcuffs. Also thanks to Neuralclone, who added a bunny to the hutch for this story, where it was allowed to happily scamper and wreak much havoc with its other bunny friends. XD Originally submitted for the Secret Challenge at 1973flashfic. Spoilers through S2.01.  


* * *

The last thing he ever thought he'd miss was his electric razor.

 

 

Long ago, of course, he'd learnt the basics of shaving with a clunky

 

old-fashioned much like the one he now held in his hand. So it wasn't as if he

 

didn't know how; it was more that he didn't _prefer_ it. Sometimes, that

 

was really more the point of things than those things themselves.

 

 

Take scribbling down notes on a notepad, for instance. On occasion, it was all

 

right, but he much preferred the clean, crisp efficiency of communication via

 

electronic or semi-electronic means. Even the mere act of typing up a memo to

 

hand to someone else in his unit was infinitely preferable; for one thing, it

 

meant far fewer questions about what this or that squiggle meant. Therefore,

 

theoretically at least, with a well-written memo, very few questions were

 

necessary. People just went about their work quietly and efficiently. His unit

 

was like the proverbial well-oiled machine, and it suited him incredibly well.

 

 

Of course, he figured that was why he couldn't have it

 

anymore. Once he'd gotten a semblance of normalcy and cocooned himself within it soundly, something had to come along and shake things up. Things with Maya. Coming back to 1973. Being without his bloody electric razor. This was all symptomatic of being Sam Tyler, and he was quite sure he didn't like it terribly well, to say the least. Especially the lack of proper toiletries.

 

 

"Good thing you remembered to buy a cucumber, your eyes look _terrible_ ,"

 

his reflection mocked. "You might try some yoghurt too, your skin's not looking

 

its baby-soft best," it continued snidely.

 

 

"SHUT IT!" Sam yelled, slamming the door on the medicine chest hard enough to

 

crack the glass slightly, but not quite hard enough to knock it out entirely.

 

 

"Bit testy this morning, aren't we? Cheer up, there's a love, soon you'll have

 

all the grande macchiato half-cafs you'd like. And before you tell me that isn't

 

the point, I know you're salivating at the mere mention, so it's no use," his

 

reflection informed him.

 

 

"Aren't you supposed to leave this sort of thing to the girl with the clown? I

 

thought she'd cornered the market on terrorising me when I'm at my most

 

vulnerable," Sam spat, sucking some water out of a glass into his mouth,

 

swishing it around, and spitting it out again in the basin below the mirror.

 

_Great,_ he thought, _now I've_

_bitten my tongue._

 

 

"If that's how you like it, fine, but you know I'm right," his reflection

 

retorted one last time before doing as asked.

 

 

And thusly, another day began.

******

"Mornin, Boss. Didn't sleep so well last night, then?" Chris cheerfully greeted

 

Sam as he entered CID.

 

 

Sam responded with a small guttural noise that would have sounded to the

 

untrained ear a bit like throat-clearing, only Chris knew better. "Sorry to hear

 

that, Boss," Chris responded, smile fading into seriousness. "Guv wants a word

 

with you first thing."

 

 

A slight hint of something crossed Sam's eyes, just for a tenth of a second or

 

so, but Chris didn't know what. Deciding discretion was the better part of

 

valour in this and most other cases where his boss' mental state was concerned,

 

he said nothing and instead stepped neatly aside. Or would have done, had he not

 

just as neatly caught his hip on the corner of the desk next to him, causing a

 

reflexive wince and rubbing of said hip.

 

 

Carefully making his face as blank as possible, Sam slunk into the Guv's office.

 

 

"How kind of you to show up. Wouldn't want to cause you any inconvenience," the

 

Guv spoke around his cigarette, fresh remains of several more like it already

 

littering the ashtray on his desk.

 

 

"It's hardly an inconvenience when I know I've you to wake up to of a morning,"

 

Sam's voice dripped sarcasm even as he smiled as sunnily as he knew how.

 

 

"You'll need that cheery disposition of yours; we've got an ugly one just in

 

this morning but I didn't want to interrupt your beauty sleep," the Guv said,

 

humour in his voice, but less showing on his face.

 

 

"O captain, my captain, lead the way." Sam offered a mock-salute.

******

"There's a body found in Dead Entry," Gene began, pausing to light another cigarette.

 

 

"Our killer hasn't got a sense of irony, has he?" Sam drawled, one muscle group

 

at the lower right-hand corner of his mouth twitching slightly, as though with suppressed grim mirth.

 

 

"Hang on, Harriet, aren't you the one always telling me it could be a bird and I

 

shouldn't assume things?" Gene was skeptical.

 

 

Sam glared at him sullenly and said nothing, which was the opposite of how such

 

conversations usually went. "All right, Sammy-boy?" Gene tried to keep his tone

 

light, but a note of genuine concern crept in anyway.

 

 

"I haven't been sleeping well lately. I'll be fine," Sam's tone was hushed and

 

slightly clipped. _And did he really sound as though he wished the Guv would_

_ask a few more questions?_

 

 

"I know what always knocks me right out. Maybe you could get WDC Cartwright to

 

give you a hand?" Gene smirked.

 

 

"Can't you show a little more respect for someone you've just promoted?" Sam

 

returned, outraged. Which was precisely what the Guv wanted.

 

 

"Respect is earned, not given. Never forget that." Gene turned back to business

 

as they reached his Cortina, which was parked at the roadside.

 

 

"Funny, I'd have thought she'd well earned your respect by now. I forget,

 

though, you do have your image to maintain," Sam continued.

 

 

"A very interesting point you raise," Gene said as he opened the door and

 

unceremoniously booted Sam into his seat whilst swinging the door firmly (but

 

gently) closed in one smooth motion.

******

"Were there any witnesses?" Sam finally asked, breaking a silence of about five

 

minutes that he'd passed sulking and boring holes into the side of Gene's face

 

with his eyes.

 

 

"None that've come forward yet," Gene played oblivious to this show, further

 

provoking Sam into the state of stress under which he performed his best.

 

 

"Why aren't we bringing a whole team with us, then? How long has the subject

 

been dead? Has someone even roped off the crime scene yet?" Sam, as ever, was

 

stuck on procedure almost as much as it was stuck on him.

 

 

"Because I wanted you to see this first. The others are coming down after us."

 

Gene said quietly, flickering his full attention on Sam for a second or so as he

 

told him this.

******

Shreds of something beige and furry decked the shrubbery along the path at

 

intermittent distances as the two made their approach, almost as though some

 

large ground-based bird had been gathering nesting material in the area. Perhaps

 

an ostrich. Although that didn't account for the chunky bloody bits...

 

_Ooo. That will have stung_ , Sam thought but immediately kept to himself as they

 

came to what Gene was leading them toward.

 

 

"I'm not quite sure what I'm looking at, Guv." Sam squinted at the mess on the

 

ground in front of him. It smelled of a slaughterhouse; fear, piss, shit, and

 

above all, of course, the unmistakable coppery scent of blood.

 

 

"Word is, it used to be human." Gene carefully stepped around the mess,

 

surveying the scene and also keeping an eye on his DI to gauge his reaction.

 

 

"It looks like a day at the butcher's," Sam waved a hand in front of his nose in

 

disgust.

 

 

"Had I known you'd have such brilliant insight, I'd have invited DC Skelton

 

along instead of waiting for you to turn up." Gene remarked dryly.

 

 

"Sorry, Guv, but aren't you at all disturbed by what's here? I only hope you can

 

find it in your heart to forgive me for not immediately giving you an instant

 

line to the killer," Sam retorted, a slight hint of how shaken he was filtering

 

through his indignance.

 

 

"Course I'm disturbed. We're all disturbed in this job. Thing is, we're meant to

 

protect our people from this, and in order to do that, we have to be able to

 

separate ourselves from it. If you can't do that, Tyler, then you shouldn't be

 

wearing the white hat. I hear there's an opening with the plonks up a level from

 

us if you're interested." Gene's dressing down of Sam was not without sympathy,

 

but did quite clearly relay its message.

 

 

"No thanks, Guv, I have the matter well in hand." Sam rolled his eyes in disgust

 

and rubbed his temples. These migraines were getting worse and worse all the

 

time and while he usually didn't think so, this time he rather wished he was

 

blind whilst surveying this particular scene.

 

 

Between Sam and Gene, lying on the ground, was a body. Or what should have been

 

a body. Perhaps it was most of a body, but it was impossible to tell at this

 

angle and without the aid of any sort of special forensic technology. Given what

 

information they were currently able to take in with their own faculties, it

 

would have been more accurate to say a man's clothes were on the ground between

 

them, and that those clothes were bloodied to the point where it was nearly

 

impossible to tell what colour or colours they'd originally been.

 

 

"I'd judge it was a man, perhaps in his thirties, going by the clothes. He

 

hasn't got any hands, feet, or head though; IDing's going to be rather difficult

 

I'd say," Sam tried to dissuade himself from disgorging the contents of his

 

stomach on the crime scene with his right hand and attempted to pass it off as

 

nonchalantly and thoughtfully chewing his index nail down. "Are you next going

 

to tell me you've found his missing appendages elsewhere?" Sam's eyes locked on

 

Gene's intently.

 

 

"Not that I know of. This scene is fresh to us and you and I are the first ones

 

down here. The others should be here any minute and we'll start squaring things

 

away then. I just wondered if you and your mad blood pattern science bobbins

 

might make something of this before I let the rest of CID loose on the scene."

 

Gene tried, but he couldn't keep a certain note of pride out of his voice as he

 

addressed Sam. Much as he'd have liked to, he couldn't get round the fact he'd

 

come to depend on his DI quite a lot, particularly in recent time.

 

 

"What's going on, boss?" DC Skelton asked, shortly before seeing the crime scene

 

for the first time behind Sam and heaving up all over Sam's shoes.

 

 

"WDC Cartwright, would you be a love and take care of DC Skelton here? I'm

 

afraid he's come over with a bad case of crime scene tampering and could use a

 

glass of water and a lie-down," Gene barked irritably before Sam even had the

 

chance to react.

 

 

"Begging your pardon, Sir, but shouldn't you have a plonk do that?" Annie said

 

calmly, not batting an eye.

 

 

Gene searched her eager, open face for any sign of insubordination intended or

 

implied and found none. Satisfied she was merely standing up for herself and

 

unwilling to admit he was secretly quite proud of her for doing so, he merely

 

grunted and nodded. "Best get started on the crime scene detail then, sweets.

 

After you see DC Skelton taken care of."

 

 

Annie turned away, rolling her eyes slightly but otherwise giving no sign of the

 

indignance she felt. "Judy, will you escort DC Skelton back to the station?"

******

By the time the CID team had investigated the crime scene thoroughly and the

 

forensic team had secured every bit of evidence they could turn up, it was well

 

past four in the morning. All parties were utterly drained of any energy; Ray

 

couldn't even muster much more than a sort of blank stare outward as they drove

 

back to the station, let alone offer any scathing remarks to anything Sam had to

 

say. Which wasn't much, anyway; as with everyone else, Sam was lost in his own

 

thoughts as Gene silently drove them back toward CID in his Cortina.

 

 

As they pulled up, Gene finally broke the silence. "Fancy a curry?" Sam blinked.

 

Gene looked serious.

 

 

"Not me, boss, I think I ought to turn in for the night," Ray exaggeratedly

 

stifled a yawn. "What little night there is left, anyway."

 

 

"Yeah, that'd be great, Guv." Sam responded guardedly.

 

 

Ray got out of the car and headed down the street toward his flat as Gene pulled

 

away and started driving back toward Rusholme.

 

 

"I wouldn't think you'd be so keen on eating after what we'd just seen." Sam

 

looked puzzled.

 

 

"On the contrary, I'm famished. I haven't eaten since well before teatime and

 

when you've seen the things I have, the mess we've just cleaned up can't phase

 

you." Gene said, putting up more bravura than he actually felt. Truth was, he

 

hadn't seen anything nearly this bad before. He wasn't sure he'd be able to

 

sleep, though, so eating only made sense as shagging was probably out of the

 

question at this exact moment and though he was a talented and prodigious

 

drinker, the thought of a drink on his empty and already angry stomach seemed

 

suspect at best.

 

 

"Besides, I wondered if maybe we could enquire round near our crime scene, maybe

 

do a bit of listening, see what we turn up." Gene smiled wolfishly as was his

 

wont.

 

 

"Bit of surveillance with your vindaloo?" Sam had to grin.

 

 

"You know what they say about old dogs, Sam." Gene allowed himself to relax

 

enough to grin back for just a moment as he met and searched Sam's gaze.

 

 

"When they get to a certain point, they're best shot?" Sam tried his best to

 

imitate Gene's voice and earned a particularly vicious punch to his right arm

 

for his trouble.

******

An hour or so later, both Gene and Sam were so knackered that even if the murderer had come waltzing into Madras House of Curry accompanied by a thirty piece orchestra, both of them would have been hard pressed to find the energy to nick him.

 

 

Well, perhaps not quite _that_ knackered, but close enough. It was clear

 

they weren't successfully putting the multi with the tasking and were instead

 

just filling their empty, angry stomachs with butter chicken and a pleasantly

 

garlicky naan (although to Sam's dismay, they were out of mango lassi).

 

 

"I'll not expect you in till at least 10, all right?" Gene nodded decisively in

 

agreement with himself and his generosity as he smoked an after-dinner fag. Much

 

better than mints, to his mind.

 

 

"You're all heart, Guv." Sam sounded almost his normal self, except he couldn't

 

quite stifle a yawn escaping through his "Guv," which rather ruined the effect.

 

 

"Let's get out of here, Sammy-boy."

 

 

"Right behind you."

******

On the drive back, somewhere in between Madras and Sam's flat, Sam fell asleep

 

leaning against the passenger side window. Gene thought about waking him up but

 

decided his DI needed more sleep anyway and left him alone for the remaining

 

five minutes it took to get where he was going.

 

 

Sam began mumbling in his sleep, growing more and more anxious and abrupt as he

 

went on. Eventually he shouted something Gene couldn't have made out if he

 

tried. He wasn't even sure it was English. Whatever it was, it made him pull

 

over to the side of the road immediately, all thoughts of his nice soft bed,

 

prewarmed by his nice soft missus immediately left him.

 

 

"Sam. SAM. WAKE UP." Gene grabbed Sam's shoulders and shook him roughly.

 

 

"Guv. I'm sorry, I must've fallen asleep." Sam yawned so hugely his jaw cracked.

 

"Thanks for drivin me home."

 

 

"You can thank me by getting a decent night's sleep. Forget what I said about

 

ten; don't come in till you wake up on your own, no alarms. Okay? Except if it's

 

after noon, don't come in at all." Gene looked genuinely worried.

 

 

"I'll be fine, you don't have to worry about me," Sam began to get out of the

 

car.

 

 

"Get back here, we're not to your flat yet." Gene tugged Sam's right arm back

 

toward him, forcing him to sit back down in the passenger seat.

 

 

"Why'd you stop then?" Sam looked slightly bewildered and eerily like he had an

 

idea of what Gene had witnessed moments previously.

 

 

"You were having some sort of fit in your sleep. Yelling lots of stuff." Gene

 

began driving once more.

 

 

"What did I say?" Sam gazed at Gene in wonderment.

 

 

"Dunno, I couldn't make it out. You sounded pretty serious, whatever it was."

 

Gene remarked.

 

 

"Sometimes I have... these..." Sam trailed off. _Visions_ , he wanted to

 

say. _Visions of where I come from, where I should be right now, what I should_

_be doing, who I AM..._ his mind trailed off. Of course he couldn't tell that

 

to Gene. Not now anyway. Chances were good Gene already thought him completely

 

mad; he didn't want to add fuel to an already well-stoked fire. "Nightmares," he

 

finished, rather lamely.

 

 

"You sure that's all they are?" Gene's accompanying look was disbelieving.

 

 

"Pretty sure, yeah. Stress, you know how it goes," Sam said as Gene pulled to a

 

smooth stop in front of Sam's building.

 

 

"Good night of sleep will set you right. Here, I've got another trick of the

 

trade for you," Gene reached into the inside pocket of his coat and handed out a

 

half-drained small bottle of Jameson.

 

 

"Guv, you don't have to do that," Sam batted Gene's hand away lightly.

 

 

"It's my job to look after my men, and you look like you need looking after.

 

Don't make me force you into bed." Gene said, starting to open the driver's door

 

as he did so.

 

 

"While that's tempting, I believe I'll just take the whiskey," Sam was back on

 

form now they weren't talking quite so personally about him.

 

 

_Some things, I just can't seem to say._ Sam allowed himself to reflect as

 

he walked away from the Cortina and dug his keys out of his pocket.

******

Some time around 11:45am that same day, Sam awoke on the floor next to his bed.

 

 

_That's funny,_ he thought, _I could swear I had on pyjama bottoms_.

 

He pulled himself up off the floor, ignoring the way his bare skin itched after

 

having spent rather too much time in close contact with the horridly patterned

 

carpet that desecrated his entire flat and, he suspected, much of the rest of

 

the other ones in the building as well.

 

 

_Oh...there they are,_ as Sam rose, he spied them hanging rather

 

precariously on the doorknob of his bathroom.

 

 

Picking them off the doorknob and shoving his legs in, Sam continued into his

 

bathroom to start his daily ritual when a piercing pain shot through his skull,

 

driving him to his knees. So severe and blindingly intense was the pain that he

 

didn't even have time to shout before he fell unconscious next to the washbasin.

******

"WDC Cartwright," Gene raised his voice slightly to be heard above the din of

 

the CID workroom and gestured Annie over toward his office.

 

 

"Yes, sir?" Annie was all attention.

 

 

"Heard anything from DI Tyler yet this" he paused, looking at the clock,

 

"afternoon?"

 

 

"No, sir, not a word. He looked utterly done in last night though. Maybe he's

 

ill?" Annie sounded concerned.

 

 

"He said he wasn't last I saw him, but maybe you're right. Still, he knows how

 

to use a phone. I've seen him. Seems he's always on the bloody phone when he

 

thinks we're not looking," Gene was only half-joking.

 

 

"You've noticed that too, eh?" Annie smiled.

 

 

Gene returned the smile. He was starting to come to a sense of ease with the

 

newest member of his team, and almost felt defiant in doing so. _Show you what_

_a dinosaur I am,_ Gene thought to himself.

 

 

"Well, could you try ringing him and see if he answers?" Gene said.

 

 

"Sure," Annie smiled and headed toward the nearest desk phone but was back

 

moments later with a worried look fairly shouting from her face. "There's no

 

answer."

 

 

"I hope for your sake it's not like _last_ time," Gene said as he scooped

 

his coat off the back of a nearby chair. "With me. Let's go." Brooking no

 

argument as ever, Gene immediately headed toward the door, assuming (correctly)

 

that Annie would be close behind. Never one to miss a cue, she was.

******

About 20 minutes of a rather awkward drive later, Gene pulled the Cortina to a

 

halt in front of Sam's building.

 

 

"What if he's not even in? What if he's gone out?" Annie wondered aloud.

 

 

"Where would he go? I don't get the feeling he gets out much without us," Blunt

 

was, as ever, Gene's watchword.

 

 

"..." Annie exhaled audibly, then smiled but didn't offer any further

 

suggestions.

 

 

They left the car at the kerb and started towards Sam's building when Gene

 

whirled around and asked, "What are you doing?"

 

 

Annie looked around, bewildered, sure he must be talking to her but not able to

 

figure for the life of her what could possibly be the matter. "...Sir?" she

 

decided was the safest response.

 

 

"You don't have to follow me around all the time like some scared puppy dog.

 

You're CID now, love. Your little legs can keep up with the big boys now, can't

 

they?" Gene smiled, not unkindly.

 

 

Deciding this was Gene Hunt-style encouragement, Annie closed the gap she'd been

 

unconsciously leaving betwixt her and Gene, and as they mounted the sidewalk

 

leading to Sam's building, they arrived side by side at the front

 

door. Annie decided to let Gene be the first one to knock Sam's door off the hinges once they were inside the building and up the short flight of steps to his flat, though.

 

 

"Oi, Sammy-boy? What's the matter, did you forget how to dial a phone?"

 

Gene shouted as he barrelled through Sam's door.

 

 

No answer.

 

 

"Shh... let's listen for a moment," Annie pursed her lips and peered round Sam's

 

flat. Not much to see, but what there was seemed completely devoid of a

 

certain DI. She edged cautiously over to the bathroom and found the

 

same. "See? Told you he might be out."

 

 

"That still doesn't explain why he couldn't call us," Gene sniffed, worried but

 

trying to hide it. "You haven't noticed anything odd going on lately, have

 

you?" 

 

 

"No more odd than usual, if that's what you mean," Annie smiled. Gene

 

clearly thought he was doing a good job hiding his worry, but he wasn't.

******

"... Nelson?" Sam exclaimed in surprise.

 

 

" _Mon brave_ , what can I get you?" Nelson smiled in welcome at the perpetually confused copper sat at his bar.

 

 

Sam, for his part, was utterly flabbergasted. "I don't remember even

 

coming in here. Has anyone else come in yet?" He looked around anxiously.

 

 

"Been and gone, my friend. Now what can I get you?" Nelson wiped a

 

glass in readiness for Sam's order.

 

 

"Scotch, neat, I suppose." Sam still looked not entirely sure that any of

 

this was really happening. Nelson sighed inwardly. _When is that boy going to sort himself out?_

******

Around an hour later, Sam arrived back at his flat, the remainder of the bottle of scotch he'd started under Nelson's concerned supervision nestled neatly in the crook of his arm. He came in, flung his coat over a chair, toed off his boots, and absentmindedly turned on the telly to whatever the Beeb was showing that night. It didn't much matter; it was all background noise. Simply somewhat comforting to fall asleep to; at least, until and unless that blasted little girl came out of the screen. But it didn't do to think about her, and he didn't want to tempt fate, so he stopped himself.

 

 

As luck would have it, the broadcast that night was the second chapter of Pollyanna, starring Elizabeth Archard. Sam smiled, instantly charmed and sure he probably hadn't seen this since he was four. And then boggling for just a moment as he drunkenly considered the ramifications of going round to his house ---the 1973 version of his house--- and settling down and watching it with himself. He wondered if he'd have known who he was if he encountered himself now? Or, rather, if the younger him would know? He already knew that he knew himself... and then he giggled, as this was all getting a bit silly and as usual, he'd had a bit much to drink. He sighed, settled back, and watched little Pollyanna's antics until he fell asleep once more.

******

"What makes you so sure you still have a job?" Gene glared at Sam as he skulked into his office and shut the door the next morning. "We went round to your place yesterday when you didn't call and you weren't there. Funny way to be off sick," Gene scowled, thumbs habitually tucked in the front of his waistband as he waited for a response.

 

 

"I'm sorry, Guv, it must have slipped my mind," Sam started before Gene cut him off.

 

 

"Never mind, we've got a lot of work to do. I trust you've at least gotten some sleep? Or were you out doing a pub crawl all day without me?" Gene picked up a notepad and squinted at its contents. "We've got a Richard Whitmore who was picked up last night as a robbery suspect. Phyllis has him booked into a nice room round the corner from Lost & Found. He's got a record a mile long featuring further armed robberies, usually done at knifepoint on unsuspecting skirts walking alone at night. Just goes to show we never should've gotten rid of the chaperon system," Gene sniffed, half-reprovingly.

 

 

"Have we even identified the gender of the body we found yet?" Sam asked, although he already knew the answer. As badly mutilated as the body had been, there'd be no way they'd have that information yet. Not with "current" techniques, anyway.

 

 

"No, but I don't see how that matters," Gene countered, sure this was leading into yet another epic battle between his way and the Hyde way of proper policing.

 

 

"And has he actually murdered anyone before?" Sam continued, still disbelieving.

 

 

"Not that we know of, but that doesn't mean he hasn't done it yet," Gene stuck out his chin and put his hands on his hips, squaring up for argument.

 

 

"So what makes you so convinced he's the man we're after?" Now Sam stuck his chin out, his gesture unconsciously mimicking that of his Guv as he neatly folded his hands in front of him.

 

 

"We'll find that out once we interview him. Now come on, sunshine, we're wasting valuable time here when we could be learning important details from Mr. Richard Whitmore. Let's go." Gene started toward the door, pausing only to grab his lighter off his desk.

 

 

"You do realise that if he's only been attacking women up to this point, and if as I suspect the body found in Dead Entry is a male, it's probably not him, even if he has been killing some of his victims?" Sam jerked his head toward Lost + Found in emphasis as he said this. 

 

 

"We'd still like to catch killers in this town, Sammy-boy." Gene scowled as he opened the door.

 

 

"Course we do, but how do you know this is the right killer? Or if he even is a killer?" Sam persisted.

 

 

"We won't know until we talk to him. Which we're about to do, all right?"

 

 

"Right, but I just want to make sure---" was all Sam got the chance to say before Gene cut him off with a sharp grab of the collar.

 

 

"Look, I'm learning, all right? I'm not going to fit him up, if that's what you're asking. But I want to know if he's done it, and we've got to start somewhere. I wouldn't feel right just sitting around till what small amount of evidence we have comes back from the lab, would you?" Gene had a new note of desperation in his voice Sam was fairly certain someone who didn't know him very well wouldn't have picked up. Gene was disturbed by what they'd seen the other night. Very disturbed. Inwardly, somewhere, Sam was glad of it. 

 

 

Satisfied, he stood up, calmly pushed Gene away, and held the door open. "After you?"

 

 

As a bit of a change, Gene decided to let Sam lead the proceedings instead of starting in on the suspect, riling him up, and then handing him over to Sam in an exasperated huff. Gene really was trusting him more. Sam was rather beginning to like it. It went without saying that both sentiments would, indeed, continue to go without saying.

 

 

"Mr. Whitmore. I understand you've had a bit of a record with us." Sam pulled out a chair across from where Richard Whitmore was already sitting, pulled out a yellow notepad and prepared to take notes with it.

 

 

"I've done my bit, yeah," Whitmore smiled, showing badly tobacco-stained teeth. Where there still were teeth, that was. He was missing quite a few as well, and as a result had a slight whistling sound to his voice on the esses.

 

 

"Ever killed anyone?" Sam asked as casually as you could ask that particular question.

 

 

Whitmore paled. "Not that I know of, no. I only want their money, mate, I don't want no trouble." Now he looked worried.

 

 

"If you 'don't want no trouble', seems to me you'd go about earning your money in an honest profession. Like gambling," Gene threw his hat into the conversation. Or shotgunned it, whichever you prefer.

 

 

"I tried that, mate. Weren't no good at it, and I have me old mam to support an' all, so I had to do somefing..." Whitmore put his hands on the table, palms up. "I'm between a rock an' a hard place, you can see that, can't you?"

 

 

"So you want us to believe you're Robin Hood?" Now Sam bounced his ball back into play.

 

 

"No, mate, nuffin like that. I just want to get by, d'yer know what I mean?" the look on Whitmore's face was even more pleading than his words or the tone in his voice.

 

 

"Most of us who 'just want to get by' find gainful employment. We don't just take whatever we fancy from some random bird in the street," Gene spat, particularly disdainful of the fact this man couldn't even pick on a fair opponent. 

 

 

"Where were you two nights ago?" Sam asked, switching back to the matter at hand.

 

 

"I were home with me mam, fixin her dinner. She's gone a little potty in her old age, bless her heart, tried to fry a geranium last month, so I took over all the housework for her. I'm an only child an' I'm all she's got." Whitmore tried his best to look about six, with all the innocence that age would confer. With his shining bald spot complete with bad greasy mouse-brown comb-over, his massive pot belly totally unrestrained by two-sizes-too-small trousers, cheap suspenders and a rumpled, badly stained button-down hideously patterned shirt completing the look, he failed quite badly in his attempted task.

 

 

"You sure you didn't go out for dinner that night? Fancy a curry, perhaps?" Gene said, tossing in an uppercut to Whitmore's jaw for added emphasis.

 

 

"I'm sure, I'm sure! You can ask her if you don't believe me!" Whitmore pleaded, tears streaming down his face as he rubbed his jaw where he'd been hit.

 

 

"You've just said your mam's gone off the rails in her old age. Why should I believe owt she says?" Gene started to bend Whitmore's fingers back as he rubbed his jaw, just enough so that it caused a rather large amount of pain but not enough so they broke.

 

 

"The lady we let from lives just downstairs. She never goes out. She'll have heard me; she's always tellin us how I make too much noise." Whitmore managed to get out in between screams.

 

 

"What's her name?" Gene menaced, easing up just slightly on the bending of Whitmore's fingers but still grasping them quite firmly.

 

 

"Laura Castle, Mrs. Laura Castle," Whitmore let out in great sobbing gasps.

 

 

"Let's capture the castle then, shall we?" Gene dropped Whitmore's hand while simultaneously picking his camel coat off a chair back nearby. 

 

 

Through the months of practise he'd had, Sam knew this was his cue to roust the suspect so he could accompany them out of the room and be escorted back to his cell. The three left the room without further incident, Whitmore holding his right hand gingerly and sniffling back what sounded like a great wad of mucus in the back of his head.

******

The Cortina pulled up in front of Mrs. Castle's house and Sam and Gene both mounted the doorstep, all business. A crisp knocking by Sam brought forth a curious elderly eye framed by glasses peering through the lace curtain at the window in the middle of the door. Both Sam and Gene held up their badges so she could see them, and satisfied with this, she opened her door.

 

 

"I'm sorry, officers, but you never can tell these days," she said, not unkindly. "What can I help you gentlemen with today?" she smiled, revealing a rather oversized set of dentures that seemed at odds with her small, birdlike stature.

 

 

"We're sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Castle, but if we could just have a moment of your time." Sam was a winning combination of straightforward and deferential.

 

 

"Would you gentlemen like some tea, then? It's a bit chilly out, isn't it?" Mrs. Castle wrapped her slightly tattered pink flannel dressing gown about her a bit more tightly and rubbed her arms for emphasis. 

 

 

"Don't mind if we do, Mrs. Castle," Gene took the lead going into the house and Sam shut the door quietly behind them.

 

 

"If you'll just have a seat, I shouldn't take but a moment. I was just about to have a cuppa myself, always do this time of morning," Mrs. Castle bustled into the kitchen and came back a few moments later with a country flower-patterned tea set. "I don't seem to have anything around other than pink wafers, is that all right?" Mrs. Castle seemed concerned she wasn't being a good hostess.

 

 

"It's like you read my mind, darling," Gene smiled. "Those are my favourite." 

 

 

Sam was intensely amused by this display, although he did his best to hide it. He never could quite get over the soft spot the Guv apparently had in his heart for elderly ladies, but it charmed him all the same---though admittedly not as much as it probably did the ladies in question. It was an interesting thing to reconcile this Gene with the one who'd just been busting up Richard Whitmore's fingers. Not to mention any number of other suspects prior.

 

 

Mrs. Castle beamed, poured out tea for the two, and settled into a small embroidered wing-backed chair while Gene and Sam made themselves comfortable on a matching love seat across a small coffee table from her, upon which sat their tea. 

 

 

Sam picked up his cup and took a sip, then smiled encouragingly at Mrs. Castle. "It's very good. Thank you very much for your inconvenience."

 

 

"Oh, it's no inconvenience at all. I hardly ever have visitors these days; I mean, I let out the second floor, but those people are strangers. We say hello in the street and that's about it," Mrs. Castle looked like she had a great deal more she wanted to say on the subject, but was attempting to keep it in check out of politeness.

 

 

"It's actually your tenants we wanted to ask about, love," Gene began, downing a swig of tea and daintily crunching into a pink wafer. "Ooo, these are lovely," he smiled again, letting the Gene Genie do his magic.

 

 

Mrs. Castle didn't need to be told twice. "Well, I don't like to make trouble, but I just don't know what that boy gets up to sometimes. Listen to me; I call him a boy even though he's got to be well into his thirties or forties. Still, he's young enough to be my son, you understand," she paused and took a sip of her own tea.

 

 

"Yes, love?" Gene took another sip of his tea, looking for all the world as though he'd never tasted a better cup in his life.

 

 

"Obviously he's got some priorities in the right place, him takin care of his mum and all. She's getting on in years and unfortunately, it doesn't seem everyone can be lucky enough like me in keeping it all together, do you know what I mean?" Mrs. Castle took another sip of tea and seemed to be contemplating the pattern on the cup for a few seconds before continuing.

 

 

"Thing is, he keeps some really strange hours. He's coming and going at all hours of the night, and his alarm clock drives me crazy! It's going off at all hours, no regard for anyone around him; I half think his mum must be deaf to put up with it. Or else maybe she's too far gone to care. At any rate, I thump the ceiling with my broom sometimes just to let him know even if she can't hear, other people can. It works for a little while but he always lets it go again." She looked simultaneously satisfied with having told someone and distraught she was causing trouble.

 

 

"Odd hours? Do you know what he does for a living?" Sam asked, eyebrows bunched together as he took another sip of his tea.

 

 

"I think he works part time down the butcher's. Nothing special, just counter work. I don't think he actually knows how to do anything skilled like that, but that place has been in his family, so his uncle felt like he had to give him a job. Think he's written off as an apprentice or something just so the uncle doesn't have to pay him. Mind you, this is merely speculation." Mrs. Castle spoke conspiratorially. "I don't know any of this for a fact, but I heard the uncle's just waiting for his sister to keel over so he can get his hands on her money." 

 

 

"Oh?" Gene continued to be staggeringly polite, and also took another delicate sip of tea.

 

 

"It's not like she's incredibly wealthy or anything, but she does have a fair bit put by. And she got more once her husband passed away. I'd guess a fair bit's going to her son, but she wouldn't leave her brother out in the cold entirely. Or at least, that's what he's hoping. Or so I heard." Mrs. Castle gingerly bit a wafer. 

 

 

"Does her son seem to like his job?" Sam attempted to steer the conversation back on course. Gene glared at him for a second, then shifted back to his previous level of geniality as he noted Mrs. Castle observing the two of them.

 

 

"Oh, I wouldn't know anything about that. Like I said, I barely talk to either of them, just a hello in the street on occasion. He usually tucks the rent under my door in an envelope so I barely talk to him even then." Mrs. Castle paused to pour herself another cup of tea. "Would either of you like more?"

 

 

"No thanks, ma'am, though it was very nice," Sam smiled.

 

 

"Ta," Gene flashed a grin, eyes sparkling, as he extended his cup forward and let Mrs. Castle pour out.

 

 

"I guess things aren't so bad. I've had worse tenants," Mrs. Castle sniffed and took another speculative sip.

 

 

"You wouldn't happen to remember anything strange two nights ago, would you?" Gene asked nonchalantly. 

 

 

"Oh, no... well, unless you count both my tenants being home all night. She never goes out, but like I said, he keeps some strange hours. I don't think he even went to work that day. I didn't hear his alarm go off once. I remember it well because it was a great relief. That loud buzzing racket, I don't know what was wrong with the old bell-style clocks," Mrs. Castle was reproachful.

 

 

"I've had one of them clocks since my days in the service," Gene nodded. "I wouldn't ever want to replace it. Still wake up with it every morning, it's so reliable."

 

 

"We need more gentlemen like you on our streets," Mrs. Castle beamed.

 

 

"That's very nice of you to say, Mrs. Castle. You've been a great help to us as well, and I'm very grateful for it." Gene beamed and set his cup down on the tray. "I'm afraid we have to get back to the station now, but thank you very much for the lovely tea."

 

 

"Yes, thanks very much. You have a very lovely home," Sam added, putting his cup down slightly less softly than he'd have liked.

 

 

"I feel much safer knowing police like you are on our streets," Mrs. Castle returned, rising to show the two out.

******

"Back where we started," Gene huffed, all charm and cheerfulness he'd shown whilst they'd been sitting at Mrs. Castle's for tea completely gone.

 

 

"Not necessarily, Guv. We know he couldn't have done it now." Sam attempted to balance out Gene's abject negativity.

 

 

"Where does that leave us, though? Usually we have a bit more to go on than this. Clearly this guy knows what he's doing. And it's awfully strange he works in a butcher's, wouldn't you say?" Gene pulled away from the kerb and began heading back toward the station.

 

 

"We only have Mrs. Castle's word he doesn't work a skilled job. How would she know?" Sam was disbelieving.

 

 

"Trust me, my gran knew everything about everyone on our street. Mrs. Castle knows." Gene's faith in this was unshakable. "Still, couldn't hurt to ask. We'll stop in; it's on our way back. I could do with some lunch, too."

******

Gene couldn't resist being a bit smug. "Told you Mrs. Castle knew what she was on about. He sweeps out the coolers! They don't even let him handle the money, let alone knives!" Gene wasn't just happy; he was utterly jubilant.

 

 

"Good to see you taking such joy in your work, Guv." Sam responded dryly. 

 

 

"Just once, I want to hear you say you were wrong and I was right." Gene brought himself up to his full height and towered over Sam, looking down at him as he took a big bite out of his bacon butty.

 

 

"I wasn't wrong. Remember, I thought from the beginning he hadn't done it." Now it was Sam's turn to look smug.

 

 

"Based on a hunch you had?" Gene rolled his eyes and took another bite as he drove.

 

 

"No, based on every other case I've handled like this. Why would he suddenly start killing when he hadn't before? Also, if he was going to start killing, why would he suddenly start killing men? Serial killers don't usually cross gender lines." Sam's words nearly tumbled over each other in his eagerness to explain.

 

 

"So what makes you so sure Dead Entry wasn't the first? Are you holding something back, Sammy-boy?" Gene's voice held a distinct note of threat in it as he eyeballed Sam over the remains of his by now mostly demolished butty.

 

 

"No, I'm not, and I'm not sure it isn't the first. But I'm not sure it'll be the last, either. And in any case, in cases like these, I'll bet you a tenner and a bottle of scotch he's done this before. Usually it starts in childhood, things like torturing small animals and such. Unexplained incidents that maybe the parents don't want to think could possibly be their child. Countless studies have proven this to be a reliable similarity across all these kinds of cases." Sam rattled on.

 

 

"Just how many of these cases did you have in Hyde?" Gene was aghast. "You'd think something like that would've made news outside your area." 

 

 

Sam realised he'd gotten ahead of himself again. "Just trust me on this, OK? See if I'm wrong. You can't lose, right?" Sam smiled weakly.

 

 

"Just remember it wasn't me made the bet this time." Gene grinned wolfishly.

 

 

Sam started. He'd clearly been spending too much time in this godforsaken era with Gene Hunt.

******

By the time they got back to the station, Whitmore had been cleared of all suspicion of his involvement in the robbery for which he'd been brought in, and Phyllis had no choice but to let him go. Of course, no word was back yet on the evidence collected at the scene of the Dead Entry murder, so CID did what they normally did in such cases and retired to the Railway Arms for a nice drink.

 

 

"I heard you went to visit Mrs. Castle today," Annie smiled as she sat down across from Sam at a table in the bar. "Learn anything exciting?" 

 

 

"Nothing as yet. All we've learnt is something I knew already, which is that Whitmore isn't our man." Sam gazed speculatively over his pint of bitter at Annie, something unreadable flitting across his eyes for just a second.

 

 

"I could've told you that from the start," Annie laughed. "He doesn't have the stomach for it, that one. I saw the same things you did the other night. To be honest, you and me should form a club; I haven't been able to sleep a whole night through since we found that body," Annie laughed sadly. 

 

 

"Don't worry, it doesn't show," Sam smiled, attempting to cheer Annie up. 

 

 

It worked. "You're sweet, Sam Tyler. Maybe we could keep each other company, go out some night when we can't sleep, grab something to eat?" Annie looked hopeful.

 

 

Sam shrugged noncommittally and grinned, sending the same mixed messages as ever. "What were you saying about how you don't think Whitmore'd have the stomach for it?" he took a sip from his glass.

 

 

"He's much too nervous. His hands were shaking after he came back from interview, and I don't think it's just the fear of Gene Hunt in him, either. You'd need a much steadier hand to do the amount of damage we saw back there, and even steadier still to not get caught somewhere along the way. Whitmore's not your man, I'm sure of it." Annie took a sip from her wine glass and gazed over its rim at Sam, slightly hurt he'd changed the subject but determined not to let it show.

 

 

"I think whoever's done this has either done this before, or will do again," Sam was grimly determined.

 

 

"Wouldn't something like this have made headlines by now if he'd done it before?" Annie was disbelieving.

 

 

"Not if his victims weren't human." Sam's gaze into Annie's eyes was so penetrating at this point she felt he was boring holes through her head.

 

 

She shifted uncomfortably, breaking eye contact. "Are you going to start in about little green men next?" she said, only half-jokingly.

 

 

"No, of course not. I'm just saying when I've seen cases like this before, usually there's a pattern established early in childhood wherein monsters like this started out terrorising smaller prey. The family pet, for instance. Squirrels. That sort of thing." Sam grimaced as he said this, then had another sip of his bitter.

 

 

"That's a pleasant thing to think about," Annie grimaced as well and had another sip of her wine. And accidentally-on-purpose brushed hands with Sam, grabbing his hand reflexively and squeezing it across the table just for a second. She knew better than to ask how many of these cases he'd dealt with before. She wasn't sure she wanted his answer.

******

By pub closing, Sam was feeling almost at peace with his world. Maybe it was all the scotch he'd downed after finishing two pints of bitter, but he definitely felt a bit better about the state of things. He even whistled a bit as he walked the few blocks to his flat, causing one teenage kid trying to sneak into his house well after he should've done to nearly have a heart attack and fall off the trellis leading up to his bedroom window.

 

 

Sam arrived home, toed off his boots, flung his jacket down and changed into his pyjama bottoms before flouncing onto his bed, causing an unhealthy squealing noise of protest to come from its questionably fit springs. "Good thing I haven't brought anyone back here," Sam remarked aloud to no one in particular, then giggled. 

 

 

"Pity you don't remember Joni," his least-favourite voice in the world proclaimed, mockingly. "I certainly do."

 

 

"Haven't you got anything better to do?" Sam glared at the little blonde girl stood at the foot of his bed. 

 

 

"The real question is, haven't you got anything better to do?" she responded, a small satisfied smile playing across her face as she tucked her clown up under her arm so he was held more securely. 

 

 

"This conversation is over," Sam shut his eyes and crossed his arms across his chest, looking for all the world like an angry young child, younger even than the blonde girl herself appeared.

 

 

"If you insist," the girl responded, sounding very sure it was far from over.

******

Next morning dawned chill and clear of fog but slightly overcast. As Sam stepped into CID, storm clouds were fairly breaking over Gene's head.

 

 

"We've got another. I think you'll recognise this one," Gene offered in greeting.

 

 

"Why would I recognise it?" Sam was confused. 

 

 

"Because I do believe you called it yesterday. Your "serial killer"? I think he's done another one, and whatever you say, I don't think any bird did it," Gene rushed on. 

 

 

Sam would've interjected, but it was obvious Gene was more rattled than he was trying to let on. "Same place, same MO, or what?"

 

 

"Different place, not exactly same method, but it's got to be him. I don't know how it couldn't be." Gene didn't want to think two killers capable of such gruesome crimes could be operating in his city at the same time.

 

 

"Do we have an ID on the victim this time?" Sam asked as Gene wordlessly handed him a couple of Polaroids.

 

 

"We just spoke to his landlady yesterday." Gene responded grimly. 

 

 

Sam's eyes widened fractionally before he spoke. "And you've been to see the body already?" he made a slight gesture with the photos in his hand.

 

 

"No. Those were on my desk this morning. No one claims to know how they got there." Gene was slightly paler than usual. "No signs of any sort of forced entry and nothing taken either, before you ask."

 

 

"We'd better have a look, then. Do we know where the body is?" Sam turned back toward the door he'd just entered moments before.

 

 

"Mrs. Castle's garden." Gene was already shoving his arms into his camel coat and practically breathing down Sam's neck as he said this.

******

The photos didn't do the crime scene justice.

 

 

It was true, it wasn't exactly the same as the previous body had been, either. This time, at least, it looked like whoever had done it had left the skin intact. That was all that was intact, however. It looked like every single bone in Richard Whitmore's body had been broken in at least two places. If Sam didn't know better, he might suspect someone had run this man down with a steamroller. His body was nothing but a bloody, bruised pulp. It was hard to say what would ultimately be determined as the cause of death, but from all observations it didn't look likely that a single vital organ in this man's body was left intact. Thankfully, at least, it seemed most of the blood was contained. Except the horribly bloody masses that stood in place of his eyes.

 

 

"Chorizo and morcilla," Sam muttered.

 

 

"What did you call me?" Gene looked askance at Sam.

 

 

"That's what these remind me of. Maybe it's all this talk of a butcher's, but there are these variants on sausages from Spain that these bodies kind of resemble." Sam was thoughtful.

 

 

Gene didn't know what to say to this, but looked eminently more worried than he had done a moment ago.

 

 

"You don't think whoever did this was intending to eat them, do you?" he said, at last.

 

 

"I don't think he would've left them for us to find if he was," Sam said as reassuringly as he knew how. "I'd say it's more presentation than anything."

 

 

"Do you think we ought to pull in the uncle for questioning?" Gene asked. "Seems to me he'd know a lot about them sausages you were talking about." Gene still looked like he wasn't fully liking what he was saying.

 

 

"Boss, we've got something," Chris raised his head, strangely dignified underneath his ghostly pallor.

 

 

"What is it, Chris?" Gene turned toward him as Sam fell to his knees in pain, stricken by something unseen.

 

 

Chris held up a shiny object in his right hand. A Saint Christopher's medal on a silver chain, which upon closer inspection bore the inscription "To my beloved son Sam, much love, Mum" on its back.

 

 

It was at this point Sam began screaming. No, not screaming. Howling.

******

Sam couldn't speak as he was led away in handcuffs. It seemed he'd gone catatonic, only someone knew better.

 

 

"Strangeways, here we come," his reflection mocked him in passing in the Cortina's wing mirror as Gene frogmarched him around to the backseat of the Cortina without a word.

 

 

Even as he was locked away in a cell and a solicitor came round to see him, Sam still said nothing. Eventually it was not to Strangeways he was sent, but to a mental facility not far away. The only visits he received were from Gene and Annie, trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong. Sam ate and drank what he was given, and his grooming habits were impeccable, but he never spoke again for years. Even when the rest of the late Tony Crane, who had been found in Dead Entry, appeared in the canal and he was confronted with the worst photos he'd ever seen in any decade. A day later, a bottle of scotch arrived addressed to Sam with no note of explanation. Of course he wasn't allowed any.

******

Gene was, of course, gutted. Annie was too, and they both seemed to sense this and understand one another's reactions to what had gone down. They developed a very odd sort of working relationship after this point, since they'd effectively been the closest people Sam had in his life. Sometimes, it was pleasant to have someone around who it seemed understood what each of them was going through; at other times, it was nothing short of torturous.

 

 

Each of them, of course, dealt with things the best way they knew how. Annie buried herself in work, concentrated on becoming the best WDC and then WDS, WDI, and eventually DCI (by this point, the "W" had been dropped). Time and again, she proved how invaluable she was to the force. Time and again, she sacrificed herself to her work and found her mind worked best when engaged in the problems she found placed in front of her on a daily basis as part of the rigorous demands of her job. She didn't set out to be some sort of pioneer or paragon of anything, but perhaps because of this fact, she was. Ray Carling never had the gall to smack her on the arse again; very quickly, he learnt otherwise. He didn't even offer a half-hearted grumble when she got promoted over him to the rank of WDI; by that time, everyone knew she'd earned it.

 

 

Gene also buried himself in work, but he took time to drown himself in drink when he wasn't working as well. He was a man who could hold more liquor in one night than a lesser man could manage in a week, and he never allowed it to affect his job. Still, he never did end up advancing much beyond the rank of DCI; somewhere along the way, after the incident with Sam Tyler, he'd lost his motivation. He began to question every miniscule thing he did with regard to his job; if he could misjudge someone as badly as he'd done with Sam, what else was he missing? The drink was actually a bit of a help; without it, chances were he wouldn't have been able to function at a level anything like normal as he'd have been overanalysing things even more than he was. Eventually, Gene became numb to nearly everything and everyone.

 

 

Chris moved out of Manchester entirely; at first, he began working in a police department in Edinburgh, where a nice girl lived whom he'd met whilst holidaying after the Sam Tyler affair had come to its messy conclusion. Unfortunately, their love wasn't meant to last, and Chris moved back to town only to take up with a notoriously rich and eccentric widow named Felicia Smythe. Many suspected her to be "keeping" Chris for her own entertainments, but if asked Chris would say he'd done some accounting courses in school and was looking after her books.

 

 

Ray wasn't terribly content with how things fell out, although he had the good sense to know not to say "I told you so" anytime Sam's name came up. At least, he didn't say it aloud. He even displayed a rather impressive amount of decorum when present at Sam's trial and eventual sentencing. Still, he was the epitome of restlessness confined, even moreso than he'd been prior to this incident. He wasn't happy in his job, and he certainly wasn't happy in his life, but he lacked any sort of motivation to do anything about it. Occasionally something or other about policing had interested him, and when he found those sparks, he worked with them as anyone might, but eventually they came less and less often. As time wore on, his job was little more than a steady source of income for his increasingly mounting debts with his bookmaker.

******

When the calendar finally changed over to 2006, DCI Cartwright was so immersed in her work she wouldn't have noticed had she not had to write it down several times during the course of the day, and then key it into her PC terminal several times more whilst filing paperwork. She did take notice of the day's news and did a double take when she saw someone called "Sam Tyler" had not only been a DCI but had also been hit by a car in exactly the way the Sam Tyler she'd known in 1973 had described. Still, her therapist thought it best to move beyond what had happened at that time, and she tended to agree. So she put it out of her mind and concentrated on the work that was always at hand.

 

 

Gene, for his part, was enjoying the life of a pensioner a lot more than he'd expected. Unfortunately his missus had passed away last year, but he comforted himself in thinking at least she'd gone peacefully, in her sleep, and not in pain. He hoped to be so lucky one day. In the meanwhile, he'd found an interest in horticulture he would never have admitted to in 1973, and had even won a few competitions with a particular rose he'd hybridised. The paper was still delivered to his house every day, but he never gave it more than a cursory glance before shredding it up to add to his compost pile, and so all mention of DCI Sam Tyler's accident managed to escape his notice.

******

"This is the chance every copper dreams about: catching a killer before he kills!" a much-aged Sam Tyler muttered rapturously as he yanked as many hoses as he could out of the body lying on the bed in a wing of the hospital just down the corridor from his own.

******

"What have they done to my beautiful boy?" Ruth Tyler was weeping openly as the nurses explained what had happened.

 

 

"It seems your son is very lucky," Nurse Cromwell said in soothing tones. "Most patients in his condition would have been done for after fifteen minutes off life support, but your Sam is still with us. I'm confident he'll wake up soon." she patted Ruth's arm and walked away, leaving Ruth to cry silently as she gripped her unconscious son's hand as tightly as she could.

 

 

"Who would have done such a thing? And why?" she asked no one in particular.


End file.
